Mirrors

How does he fill this vacant time? Is it enough to write his thoughts To better his rhyme? His letters spill out limp and fraught. He, the unemployed contemplative, His mind traces along roads of despair, To him they are useless imperatives, His schemes and plans play only poor fair. Where does the light begin on these roads and keys? How might he find a sustainable joy? Seek, he, seek the renewed spirit in the simple leaving of the fall fallen leaves and break, He, break and bound out of caustic crowns, have him wash the meddling ploys from the Traces of his original face, Which was bent towards grace, Where to Heaven he was meant to tally and toy. Where in light he is the eternal boy. Easy and free, here is his joy. Let not this mystic walk of the soul be the detached and harried task Let him merely brave into quiet being and remove the masks In doing he provides space for the things he cannot explain or describe Which will fill him with formless power, the pure purpose of a new tide Daring, he will, only then, raise love Higher and higher. Brighter and brighter. For all to reflect with heart-filled shimmers Like the truth and ease of so many mirrors.